Date: Fri, 22 Jun 2001 09:29:33 EDT
From: Aterovis@aol.com
Subject: Chapter 15 of All Lost Things
Hello boys and girls. Welcome to another installment of All Lost Things. Be
sure to check out the website to enter the ALT contest and win an
autographed copy of Bleeding Hearts.
http://www.steliko.com/bleedinghearts
Write me with feedback at: Aterovis@aol.com
Chapter 15
I left Mrs. Fields with mixed emotions. On the one hand I was
excited at the thought that I may have discovered something important. My
enthusiasm was somewhat curbed, however, by the overwhelming sense of
sadness and loss I felt after my visit with the old lady. Not that she
exuded these qualities; in fact, she seemed to have accepted her lot in
life with the resigned grace of a true Southern lady. Never-the-less, I was
left with an empty feeling that I couldn't quite understand. I resolved to
go see her again whether it had any bearing on the case or not.
My excitement finally won out over my sudden bout of depression and
by the time I arrived back at the office I was fairly bursting with the
contained news. I fairly exploded into Novak's office wearing a grin that
spread from ear to ear. He looked up with mild surprise at my dramatic
advent.
"Have I got news for you!" I crowed.
"I hope it is something equal to the sinking of the Lusitania to
merit that kind of entrance."
"The sinking of the what?"
"You are hopelessly uneducated. How did you ever graduate high
school? Go to the library on your way home and pick up a book on American
history. The Lusitania was a passenger ship that was torpedoed by a German
sub while taking provisions to England during the First World
War. Twelve-hundred people died, but of course they haven't made a movie
starring Leonardo DiCaprio about so I wouldn't expect you to know anything
of it."
"Don't you even want to know what I found out?"
"I'm sure you'll tell me eventually. I have news for you too."
"You do?" My curiosity fought with my desire to gloat, but
curiosity, that never-sated demon, won out. "You go first," I proposed.
"How gentlemanly. I made a few phone calls concerning our friends
Terry and Becky Haynes."
"Terry is the husband, right?"
"We'll make a detective of you yet," he said a tad
sarcastically. "Yes, Terry is the husband. Anyway, it seems my hunch was
right. Terry and Becky Haynes have no children, or rather; I should say
they no longer have any children."
"No longer...you mean?"
"They had a son. He would have been ten this year. He died when he
was two."
"Oh my God! That's horrible."
"It gets worse. Apparently he died from injuries resulting from
child abuse at his daycare center."
"Around here?"
"No, this all happened in upstate New York. They moved down here
after the trial was over. The caretaker was convicted."
"I can't say I blame them for wanting to get away."
"And yet did they get away?"
"What do you mean?"
"They moved right next door to another child abuser."
"Oh my God," I said again as the implications became clear.
"Yes indeed," Novak agreed as he read the dawning on my face.
"So you think they killed Ira?"
"I didn't say that. It's a possibility, maybe even a strong one,
but right now we don't have any evidence, just a guess. We don't know that
they did absolutely anything except try to aid Caleb however they could. It
warrants more investigation, certainly. Now, what was your big news? You
were practically bubbling over with excitement when you arrived."
With the impact of Novak's news I had almost forgotten my own. I
quickly began to fill him in on my antagonistic exchange with Nadine. He
wasn't too happy that I had possibly alienated a potential suspect; or at
least a source of information since we weren't seriously considering her a
suspect, but he cheered up considerably when he learned I had finally
gotten in to see the elusive Mrs. Fields. As I told him about my
conversation with the elderly widow he leaned back in his chair and began
to rub his chin in what I was beginning to recognize as his thinking
posture.
"Interesting. Very, very interesting," he mused when I had finished
my narrative.
"So you think it's important?"
"Possibly."
"Do you always have to be so darn cautious?" I griped.
He looked askance at me. "You would like a little praise perhaps?"
"Would it kill you?"
He applauded for a few seconds. "Job well done, kid. You've
confirmed that Caleb was indeed meeting someone covertly in the barn at the
very least. What was your impression of Mrs. Fields? Is she a reliable
witness as far as the gender of our unknown guest?
"Well, she is on the blind side," I admitted, "but she's still a
sharp lady and I'd side with her intuition any day. Besides, Caleb is gay
so it makes sense that he's be meeting a guy."
"You're assuming that they were meeting for a romantic rendezvous."
"I found that condom-"
"And that is what is known as circumstantial evidence. We don't
know that the condom and those nocturnal visits are connected. It seems
reasonable to assume they are but there is no room for assumptions in an
investigation. They can be costly if they are incorrect. Cold, hard,
undeniable evidence is what we trade in, kid, the kind we have precious
little of at the moment. We don't know that the Haynes's are anything
except the victims of a tragic crime and we don't know that Caleb was
having a sexual relationship with his creeping caller, or anyone at all for
that matter."
"So we need evidence, then. How do we get it?"
"We don't look for evidence to prove our wild guesses. We discover
facts and decipher them, piecing them together like a puzzle until we have
something to build our case around. And while I'm talking about puzzles it
occurred to me today that we've been overlooking a fairly large piece of
this particular puzzle."
"We have? What is it?
"There is one person we haven't given due consideration in our
investigation thus far."
"Who?"
"You tell me."
"Novak!" I cried in exasperation.
"Think, kid. Use your little gray cells as Poirot would say."
"As who would say?" I was becoming hopelessly confused amidst
Novak's dizzying speech and esoteric references.
"Dear Lord, the child isn't just dense he's uncultured too!"
"Will someone please tell me what he's talking about?" I appealed
to the ceiling.
"Haven't you ever read Agatha Christie?"
"No," I admitted, "I read mostly fantasy when I read."
"Bah!" He spun around in his swivel chair and wheeled over to the
bookcase that housed his collection of mystery books, mumbling under his
breath all the while. He chose two volumes after studying the shelves for a
minute and slid them across the desk. I picked them up and read the titles,
Murder on the Orient Express and And Then There Were None. They were both
by Agatha Christie.
"Read them. That's an order. Consider it part of your training."
I tucked the books into the seat next to me and looked at him
expectantly. He stared back at me, equally expectant.
"Well?" I said after the staring contest began to get a little old.
"Well what?" he volleyed back.
"Aren't you going to tell me who we've been overlooking?"
"I was sitting here waiting for you to tell me precisely the same
thing."
"That's insane!" I screeched. "You know. I don't!"
"Bingo," he said as if I had proven his point.
"We've talked to every single person that we know of who could
possibly have any bearing on the case with the exception of this mystery
person who Caleb may or may not have been banging in the barn. We can't
have overlooked him since we don't even know who he is."
"Ever so eloquently put," he said dryly, "but wrong nonetheless."
"We can't talk to Ira, he's dead!"
"You're getting warmer."
"Are we going to hold a sťance?"
"No, the person I'm talking about isn't necessarily dead, although
we've been led to believe they are."
"Caleb's mother?" I guessed.
"Bravo! I thought I was going to have to draw you a picture. Yes,
I'm referring to Rachel Cohen, the wife of the late Ira Cohen and mother to
young Caleb."
"But Caleb said she was dead. Why would he lie to us about that?"
"Maybe he doesn't know he's lying."
"Huh?"
"Are you always this slow or are you just having a bad day?"
"Can we quit with the insults already?"
Novak sighed. "Fine, but I hope you realize you are ruining my
fun. Ira Cohen told his young son that his mother had passed away, but we
really only have his word for that and we know he wasn't exactly the most
trustworthy personage."
"If she's alive then where has she been all this time?"
"Aha! It would behoove us to find that out, now wouldn't it?"
"Be-who?"
"Do I have to add the dictionary to your ever growing list of
assigned reading?"
"I thought we were done with the insults. Do you know that she's
alive or is this just another of your hunches?"
"No, no, I don't know anything for sure yet, just a little thought
that occurred to me today."
"You have the strangest thoughts."
"They serve me well. What would you suggest we do next?"
I thought a minute before answering. I was tired of getting zinged
for one day and wanted to make sure that I got the answer to his pop quiz
right this time.
"Well, as I see it, we have three avenues that we need to follow,"
I began carefully. Novak's eyebrows arched slightly and I continued, "We
need to follow up on the Haynes, find out if they had strong feelings of
protectiveness or responsibility for Caleb. We need to keep digging into
our mystery guest at Chateau Barn Loft. Who is he and is he a suspect or
possibly an alibi for Caleb? And we need to find out if Rachel Cohen is
really dead, and if not where is she?"
"Surprisingly sound thinking," he said approvingly.
"I'm not finished," I said quickly. "We can't rule out Nadine
completely. Just because we know she left hours before Ira was killed
doesn't mean she couldn't have come back later and made firewood out of
him."
With a proud smile Novak began to applaud. "There's the deviously
brilliant mind I knew existed in that pretty little head of yours."
That was twice today someone had commented on my attractiveness. If
this kept up I was soon going to have a swelled head.
"So which of those avenues do you wish to travel next?"
I thought a minute, "I want to talk to Caleb."
"And ask him what?"
"Well, like who was he meeting in the barn loft?"
"An excellent question, although one I doubt he'll be too eager to
answer. You can go first thing tomorrow."
"Why can't I go now?"
"Because I have other cases, you know. Paying ones, ones that fund
your exorbitant salary."
"Burger flippers at Mickey-Dees make more than I do," I snorted
derisively. I went to work feeling a little peevish and more than a little
anxious to talk to Caleb. The drudge work seemed even more drudgery than
usual as I couldn't get my mind off Caleb. Of all the directions this case
seemed to be taking Caleb was the one that fascinated me the most. He was
the one constant in the whole thing and yet he was perhaps the one we knew
the least about. What made him tick? Was he capable of killing his father
in cold blood?
I could barely wait to see him face to face the next day.
* * *
For my second visit ever to the Juvenile Detention Center I went
alone. It was surprisingly easy to get in to see Caleb. All I had to do was
tell them who I wanted to see and sign in.
Once again I was led down an antiseptic hallway to the sparse
cinder block and metal visiting room. I sat down on one of the cold metal
stool facing the glass divider. It was about ten minutes before Caleb made
his appearance, looking sullen and pale. He seemed surprised to see me. A
greenish-purple bruise surrounded his left eye and his lower lip was
swollen and split.
"Wow, you look like hell!" I gasped.
"Gee thanks, you really know how to make a guy feel special," he
said sourly. He sat down across from me, but I somehow got the impression
he didn't really want to talk to me.
"Did they do anything to the guys who did this to you?"
"Are you kidding? Nobody gives a damn. I'm just a fucking faggot
who chopped his dad up with an ax."
"I...you...did you?"
He cocked his head to one side. "What?"
"I mean...well, did you chop your dad up with an ax."
He sat for a minute without moving. I held my breath and the only
sound was the suddenly loud ticking of the clock on the wall. Then he
calmly stood up and started for the door.
"Caleb, wait!" I called. "I need to hear you say it. Please."
He stood for another few seconds with his back to me, and then
slowly he turned around. He leaned in until his face was just a fraction of
an inch from the glass that separated us, each breath fogging slightly as
it struck the cool surface. I leaned back in spite of myself as he began
speaking in a raspy voice so low I could barely make out what he was
saying.
"I was five years old when my mom died. I don't really remember her
at. My first clear memory is of my dad getting mad at me because I'd
spilled a glass of milk. He hit me so hard I flew all the way across the
room. For years I lived never knowing what I would do next that would earn
me my next beating. The excuses started getting weaker and weaker and soon
we didn't need a reason at all, it was a complimentary gift. Thanks for
staying, here's your beating. Do you have any idea what it's like to live
your whole life-twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, three-hundred
and sixty-five days a year-in constant fear? Never knowing when you would
turn around next and get the shit beat out of you for no reason? For a long
time I hope, I prayed, that someone, anyone, would do something, anything,
to get me out of there. Just make it stop, I'd beg God. It didn't take too
long to realize that nobody was going to do anything. Nobody cared, not
even God. I was on my own.
"I started working to get myself out of there as soon as
possible. I thought if I could just make it to graduation I could get a
scholarship and go away. I worked my ass off to get straight A's. You'd
think he'd be proud of me for that at least, wouldn't you? Well he
wasn't. He resented me, said I thought I was better than him. So he beat me
more. The only way I could avoid the beatings was to avoid him. You can
only hide so long before you have to come out for food or to go to the
bathroom, or something. He'd be waiting. And then it would just be worse,
like he was saving it up.
"You want to know if I chopped my dad up into little pieces and
roasted him like a pig? God, I fantasized about killing him a million
times. I killed him over and over again, a different way every time. It was
like a game, How Many Ways Can I Kill Daddy? Sometimes I'd finish him off
fast just to get him out of my life, but sometimes I'd drag it out, torture
him until he begged me to kill him. But you know what? When it came down to
it I never did anything except hide and take the beatings. You wanna know
why? Because I'm a pussy. A weak scared worthless piece of shit. I don't
know who killed my father and I don't really give a damn, but I wish to
hell that I had done it."
He slumped back against the wall, slowly sliding down to the
concrete floor, his chest heaving and his eyes burning with hatred. I sat a
minute trying to catch my own breath. I'd never been in the presence of
such intense emotion, not even when I had been face to face with
Todd. Insanity is far different from hatred. And yet I didn't feel like
Caleb was evil, just horrible damaged.
"I...I don't know what to say," I said at last.
"There's nothing to say. That's my life, shitty as it is. I'm a
punching bag and that's all I'll ever be."
"No, it's not all you are. You're more than that." I was suddenly
desperate for him to believe it, to believe it myself.
"No I'm not," he said with a quiet finality.
"Yes you are. I'll get you out of here, you'll see."
"And what? Wisk me off to Never-Never Land where I can live with
the other lost boys? Kiss my boo-boos and makes them all better? It doesn't
work like that in the real world, Killian. Thanks anyway."
"It'll be better than being in jail for something you didn't do."
He gave me a strange look that I couldn't decipher. "Will it? One
foster home after another until I get kicked out of the system at 18? I'll
just be another statistic."
"You don't know that. It could be different for you."
"And I suppose you're going to help me, Jimmy Olsen?"
"Yes!"
"How?"
"I'm going to find out who killed your father."
"Good luck. The police seem pretty damn sure it was me."
"We'll find you an alibi."
His eyes skittered away. "I told you I don't have one."
"Then we find the real killer."
"And then we spin straw into gold."
"God, you've got a shitty attitude. I'm trying to help here."
He slumped a little lower. "You're right. I'm sorry."
"Good, how about if you answer a few questions?"
"Like what?"
I took a deep breath and decided to start with an easy question
first. "What was your relationship like with the Haynes?"
"Becky and Terry? They're real nice, why?"
"Were they protective of you?"
"What do you mean protective? They tried to watch out for me. There
wasn't much they could do."
"Did you know they had a baby die at child care from child abuse?"
"No! That's awful! Becky never...Wait a minute! You're not trying
to say they did it, are you?"
"We're looking into everyone involved."
"No way. They are the only people who ever gave a damn about
me. They would have let me stay with them but Dad knew they helped me and
that would have been the first place he looked. They gave me food, a
sleeping bag, even a mattress."
"Which you kept in the barn loft."
His eyes narrowed but he stayed quiet.
"I found it. I've been up there. You really like Doritos, huh?"
Still no answer.
"I found the magazine too. And the lube. Oh yeah, and the
condom...the used one."
He glared at me silently.
"Look Caleb, we know you hid out in the barn. I can't say I blame
you. We also know you met someone out there. We need to know who it was."
"There wasn't anyone," he said finally.
"We know there was. He was seen climbing into the barn after you."
"There wasn't anyone," he repeated.
"Caleb, this could be important. We need to talk to everyone
involved. Maybe this person can give you an alibi; we could get you out of
here."
"Find another way."
"Caleb, you're not being reasonable. We need to talk to this
person."
"I told you, there isn't any person. I don't know what you're
talking about."
"This is crazy! How can I help you if you won't help me?"
"Then don't help me. It wasn't my idea anyway. It was Asher's." He
stood up and walked to the door. "We're done in here," he yelled.
"Caleb, please. How can I trust you if you won't tell me the
truth?"
"I guess you can't," he said softly as the guard opened the
door. He walked out without looking back once, leaving me facing an empty
room. The door slammed shut with an echoing crash.